


bloody hell, I think this is my one

by quizzical_fawn (crucialandinert)



Category: IT Crowd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27601543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucialandinert/pseuds/quizzical_fawn
Summary: a drabble about a hideously anxious, awkward woman named Jessica and how a gentle goth named Richmond helped her stop living in her (beautiful) skull.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	bloody hell, I think this is my one

“A rictus of self-conscious agony” was the objective description of the look on the face of the girl Jen introduced as “Jessica.” Richmond didn’t really notice what she said, just how she said it—like the words were strangling her on the way out. Every breath the girl took seemed to be causing her some excruciating humiliation. He also noticed that she had a nice scarf. “Bloody hell, I think this is my one,” he murmurred, _sotto voce,_ to Moss, who was too busy being twitchy himself to reply.

On the surface of it, the girl had a personality like nails on a chalkboard. Being her dinner companion really ought to have been unbearable, as she could hardly stop making air quotes long enough to pick up a fork; when she did, it was to have a strange, self-critical mock conversation with a fish finger. Yet, it wasn’t really getting to him—in fact, all he felt was sympathy. He, of all people, understood how it was to feel exposed and anxious about the scrutiny of strangers. He’d been developing the ability to tolerate time in the glare of the world outside the server room only gradually himself. 

So Richmond sat quietly at her side, gazing at her with a mild expression as she nervously prattled; making a game of it almost, challenging himself to see the fellow human beneath all the off-putting behavior. It helped that one of the burdens of the gothic subculture was also one of its freedoms: he was an outcast from the “normal” society that considered her behavior repulsive, but as a result, he was unbound by the shallow conventions which would have forced him to reject her. He was at liberty to respond instead to the soul underneath, with all the poet’s delicacy he had been required to hide when he was still trying to be one of the lads.

So he continued to gaze as her torturous monologue finally came to an end in a desperate little peal of laughter, which un-knit the muscles of her face long enough for him to distinguish the delicate lines of her bone structure. Here was the flash of hidden beauty he had felt sure would show itself, like a little deer in a clearing, if only he were still and waited. 

“You know, when you laugh, I can see the outline of your skull. You have a beautiful skull.”

He was, admittedly, startled by how fast she was on him thrusting her tongue down his throat, as he had just meant to try and help her feel a bit more comfortable by giving her a nice, friendly compliment—but he was definitely not displeased.


End file.
